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nosiness?
    Gerald quite often had decent moments. Immediately after the discovery of Tasker’s body, he’d seen that Esther was exceptionally shaken by the circumstances of this death, and monstrously flippant disposal of the body, and for a time shelved his egomania and grew considerate, kindly, tender. Yes, she’d admit he could be like that now and then. Hardly ever did he fail Esther when he judged her to be genuinely needy. And, occasionally, he could maintain such warm thoughtfulness for quite an impressive while. Hours.
    This afternoon, Esther stayed outside the playground, her eyes directed at the slide. Uselessly directed. All she’d see was the empty chute, no late pointers. On the morning he was discovered she’d had the call at seven forty a.m. and arrived just after the Scenes of Crime team and before the tenting. She could still call up the sight of Tasker, flat on his back about halfway down, each arm over the side, perhaps to anchor him and stop the body slipping further, possibly off the chute altogether. The people who brought him here wanted a better show than a crumpled body on the ground at the end of the slide. Did they intend Tasker to look like a delighted and excited child as the slope took charge? But, in fact, because of what had happened to his face elsewhere, there could be no semblance of little-boy excitement and delight on it.
    Now, as Esther zombie-stared, a park keeper came to end-of-day lock the playground gate. He didn’t seem to recognize Esther. Maybe he’d been off when the body was found, and hadn’t seen her around here then.
    â€˜It’s perfectly all right in there now, you know, lady, if you want to bring your children along to the rides and so on. I can understand the . . . the, well, queasiness, but it’s all been thoroughly spruced up. Not a trace of . . . of anything.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ She went back to the car.
    At home, Gerald was accentuating the negative: ‘I don’t know about this TV thing, Esther. I’ve seen the programme once or twice, haven’t I? It has that Rex Ince on it often. Cambridge – a don. He behaves as if he thinks the whole damn thing should be about him, not the topic they’re discussing.’
    A rival. ‘Does he, dear?’ She’d like to keep matters still mild this evening, no knockabout. Perhaps he’d prefer that, too. If he was going on television he wouldn’t want old scars evident. And she’d seen enough scars lately.
    Gerald imitated a quibbling donnish voice: ‘“Oh, yes, William Boyd can describe room interiors well enough in his novels, but let me recount what happened to me one day in Tasmania.” That’s fucking Ince. Do I want to line myself up on the screen with such people?’ Yes. But Esther didn’t say so. ‘And then the chairman,’ Gerald added. ‘The usual chairman. Bale? Rupert Bale? One of the people who drinks with us works in television, though for a different company, and says this Bale is in a somewhat stressful situation involving Adrian Pellotte – Baron Pellotte of the Snorts. Bale and Pellotte’s daughter have something going, apparently. Possible difficulties there. Bale’s from the wrong estate.’
    â€˜Temperate not Whitsun?’
    â€˜Like that. What bothers me is that if this Bale has such worries he’s likely to be a bit all over the place as chairman of a programme. No control, I mean. So, panellists screaming at one another. A noise competition.’
    â€˜You could hold your own, Gerald.’
    â€˜Unwise, inappropriate, for me to be seen in something chaotic and shambolic like that. I’m a name, Esther, a reputation. I have to guard these. I can’t allow myself to be yelled at by a twerp like Ince. It would confuse and upset those who see me, know me, for what I am.’
    â€˜Many of those.’
    â€˜We’ll watch the next damn